The Solstice brings Neuvillette a stressed-induced rut that leaves Wriothesley begging for his eggs.

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Neuvillette is in a mood.

Moods like this come so rarely to him. He is usually genially. Very good at grin and bearing it, as Wriothesley often likes to say. It’s less-so bearing it; Neuvillette it rarely bothered to the point of struggling with such a thing. 

But, on occasion, he can find himself… uncharacteristically riled up. He will find the most minor of things annoying. He will be vexed by every look tossed his way, every word said to him, every bite of food that he tastes. 

Wriothesley finds these days funny.

(They are not, and frankly, Neuvillette doesn’t like that crooked grin that Wriothesley tries to hide behind his palm.)

Sedene finds these days less funny. 

Today, she drops a stack of paperwork on his desk with a too-rough hand. The sound of it is harsh, the slap of paper against the room sounding off like a shotgun blast. Makes Neuvillette’s ears ache. But when he meets her face, Sedene is wearing a look that dares him to challenge her, and it’s because she can tell that he’s off-kilter. 

“Sit up, Monsieur,” she demands with a sniff. 

Neuvillette grunts but stiffens in his chair, leaning against the back of it. The last thing he wants to to draw Sedene’s ire because while he’s not above snapping at others, he refuses to bite at her. Or any other Melusine, for that matter. 

But gods, the day has been long. His head pounds. It is too cold outside, a downright, strangely frigid day for Fontaine. It is usually more temperate in the Court itself. Snow tends to cling to the peaks of the surrounding mountains, not the rooftops of villas. Neuvillette isn’t human, he isn’t bothered by the cold in the same way, but it is an annoyance which he has little, little patience for. 

“Should I call for him?” Sedene asks this with a twisted grin that otherwise might be cute. 

No. The last thing that Neuvillette needs is to have his mate teasing him. Later, perhaps; later when they’re home alone, and it’s quiet, Neuvillette can take time to breathe. 

Still. He pulls at his face, because calling Wriothesley here also sounds wonderful. He needs a break. He deserves a break, even if it’s at the momentary expense of his dignity. He looks at Sedene over his hand. She would be the only one to know. For others, it can be explained away as merely a work meeting. 

Sedene hums, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I should call him,” she decides, already turning away.

“Wait.”

Sedene waits. Turns back to him and waits to hear him out.

Neuvillette finds himself both tongue-tied and embarrassed. “I—don’t. I will see him at home.”

“Monsieur,” she chides, but it’s out of good-natured worry, sounding more exasperated than anything. 

“I will leave early.” Sedene stills at this caveat, her expression tilting slightly. Neuvillette thumbs at his brows, pulling over the worry wrinkle between them. Wriothesley does that. He likes it when Wriothesley does it, too, just a sweet, intimate touch as he jokes about smoothing the wrinkle away. 

Yes, yes, he should leave early. Get some rest.

“You should stake tomorrow off too,” suggests Sedene. 

What. Neuvillette would never, at least not so last-minute. Certainly not at the suggestion of his secretary. “Miss Sedene.”

She shrugs. “It’s the Solstice, Monsieur. Government offices are even closed tomorrow, and yes, I know that you tend to work holidays, but I think that you’ve been here a little too much as of late.” Sedene sighs quietly, rubbing her paw along the edge of his desk. “Even Chief Justices need a day or two, and they are allowed to take one. Or two. Preferably two, maybe even more.”

“I—Miss Sedene.” This time, he says her name as a plea. 

“Monsieur Wriothesley,” she continues, trying another tactic, one that Neuvillette is determined to not let work, “sent you a gift. I left it on your desk earlier.”

“Yes, I saw it,” is Neuvillette’s dry reply. It’s still in its box on his desk, unopened, terribly wrapped in creased and wrinkled paper.

She waits expectantly. When he doesn’t expand upon that, she says, “I think that you should go see your mate.”

Neuvillette blinks. The last time that Sedene used this tone with him was on the eve of a rut. Before Wriothesley, he worked through them to the point of near sickness, but there was one time that she refused to entertain it, and called Sigewinne in for help. It’s the only time she’s ever nailed him with one of her guns—and the last. But. 

Well, Sedene is giving him a look, the one that spells trouble, the one that means she will not take no for an answer. 

And, what is the harm in indulging, he supposes? Sedene isn’t wrong when she says he’s been working too much, but the world did not stop turning with the death of Focalors, and now he has more to do than ever before. 

Neuvillette sighs. Rubs at his eyes and gives her a pointed look. “My mate,” he repeats. “He—”

“Will take care of you,” she cuts in.

“I do not require the two of you to mind me. But…” Neuvillette will give her an inch and hope that he does not come to regret it. “I will leave early. And I will take tomorrow off. I’ve never had a person to share this holiday with, and Wriothesley seems to have a fondness for the tradition of it.”

Sedene’s expression softens and she nods. Says nothing else as she turns away and skips from his office. 

Neuvillette watches her go, amused and vexed by how so easily he was manipulated. 

Still. He smiles, just the tiniest upturn of his lips at one corner. He’ll send a message to Wriothesley that he will be bringing dinner home. 

#

Wriothesley is brewing tea when Neuvillette steps into his—their—home. 

(It is a strange thing, calling it that. Wriothesley has unofficially lived there, at least part of the time, for several years, but now they are mated; now it is official, and Wriothesley only stays over in the Fortress as a necessity. Sharing this space has warmed Neuvillette’s heart, and coming home isn’t just stepping into a building, it’s stepping into Wriothesley, in a way. It’s—)

“Sweetheart, is the snow outside your fault?”

Probably. Snow is water, and when Neuvillette is keyed up, the weather in Fontaine turns downright foul. The flurries are soft, sweet things, but unusual to find in the city itself. 

The tension in Neuvillette’s shoulders loosens immediately at the sound of his voice. Perhaps, he should give Sedene more credit. He should definitely listen to her more, because she was right, so, so right. The slog of the day is sloughed away as he kicks off his shoes, and steps into the cradle of Wriothesley’s arms. 

“It smells like pine in here.” It’s a little too sharp for Neuvillette’s nose, and the tingle a little unpleasant. He rubs his face against Wriothesley’s shoulder, his nape, the length of his neck to get rid of it, but also soak up his scent instead. 

Wriothesley chuckles against him. “I decorated a little. Nothing much, just a few wreaths. A small tree on the table. And—” He pauses, fingers finding Neuvillette’s chin, tilting it up.

Ah. Mistletoe. Admittedly, one of the sillier seasonal traditions, but now Neuvillette weighs the pros instead of the cons. He cups Wriothesley’s face, pulling his thumbs across his cheeks. Neuvillette leans forward, pressing their mouths together, relishing the weight of Wriothesley’s lips against his. 

How easily this fixes his day. Neuvillette did not realize just how much he needed his mate until now. He’s been keyed up, his insides tight, but as they kiss, Neuvillette relaxes, sighing against Wriothesley’s mouth, tasting him. They linger. It is a lazy kiss, a sweet thing that doesn’t have tongues or teeth, just a gentle pressing together that leaves them soft and warm.

Neuvillette pulls away and purrs a soft hum of contentment. “I believe that I see the appeal now.”

“Oh? Tell me more.”

Their next kiss is a little biting. Wriothesley tilts Neuvillette’s face for the perfect angle, for better reach, his tongue slipping past teeth. Neuvillette moans, drunk on his taste. Suddenly, there’s heat in his gut. Suddenly, the doorway to the living room is too hot, too tight, and all Neuvillette can think about is whisking Wriothesley away to the bedroom.

He stills at that thought. 

No, no, he’d wanted a quiet night in by the fire. They’d eat the nice takeaway he’s brought home, they’d retire to the couch, and they would just enjoy the night together. Maybe some soft lovemaking. Maybe a nice bath after, with a lot of wandering hands, but—

Wriothesley’s hands slide down Neuvillette’s side, fingers digging into his hips. He guides Neuvillette to turn and presses him against the wall as that kiss deepens, turns hot and sultry, and oh, Neuvillette doesn’t think this is what mistletoe is supposed to bring about. 

It’s because he was keyed up, surely. Neuvillette is needy. The moment that Wriothesley’s knee slips between his legs and lifts against his trousers, Neuvillette moans against his mouth, a thing, reedy sound that Wriothesley swallows up. 

When they part, Wriothesley’s out of breath. He peels back just enough to look at Neuvillette, his expression pinched. “Neuvillette, are you rutting?”

He is not. He is…

Not entirely convinced that he is not.

(The schedule would be wrong, but there are plenty of things that can knock it askew. Wriothesley knows his calendar. Wriothesley also knows his cycle has been messed up before, and stress is definitely a trigger. And Neuvillette has been so stressed; stressed taking over Fontaine; stressed with balancing its power; stressed by mountains of paperwork, and the late nights, and feeling bereft of his mate—)

Neuvillette blinks. Heat crawls through his belly, sinking into the base of his spine. He feels tight—too tight for his body, too full of—

He blanches. Oh, Sedene knows. She’d be able to see the swirling Hydro in his gut, the presence of eggs, if they were there. Neuvillette is rife with embarrassment. He whines, hiding his face against Wriothesley’s throat. Why must he notice these things so late? Decades ago, he could sense his cycle weeks in advance, but now he’s so busy, he’s up to his eyeballs in things, that he didn’t notice the signs until now.

Usually, his ruts are manageable. He used to work through them. Then, with Wriothesley, it takes a night, maybe an additional morning, to clear the worst of it from his system. This time, he’s made eggs. He feels them, heavy in his gut, begging for release. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to be embarrassed.”

Yes he does. Yes he does. Neuvillette is supposed to be good at keeping a hold of himself. He is supposed to have standards.

(But, apparently, those standards include the innate desire to breed his mate full. They’ve talked about this. Wriothesley’s even seen his eggs, played with them, had fun with them, but Neuvillette doesn’t think that fucking his fist and expelling them onto the sheets will be enough this time because it barely was the last.)

“Eggs,” he murmurs. “How did I not realize… Beloved, I—”

Wriothesley stills. Pets through his hair and guides Neuvillette’s face away from his neck.

“You’re worried,” he says, knowing him too well. “Neuvillette, why are you worried?”

“I—I’m—” They’ve talked about this. Children, raising a family together. One does not mate another without doing so. Neuvillette’s instincts rage to fill his mate until it takes, until there’s a brood on the way, and— 

“I cannot think clearly,” he murmurs. The pine itches his nose, but it’s mostly Wriothesley’s arousal that’s caught his attention. What a wicked temptation, what a sinfully sweet desire that fills the air. 

“Wait, no, tell me sweetheart. I know you can.”

Neuvillette swallows the lump in his throat. “Eggs, Wriothesley. Spilling them into the bed will not be enough. I will want to…” 

They are flexible in this manner. They’d talked about him carrying children, which would be vastly easier considering his anatomy, but now that the thought is in his brain, Neuvillette cannot think of anything other than Wriothesley taking at least one of them.

Wriothesley still pets through his hair. “Is this the talk about children?” he asks. “Are you level-headed enough for that?”

“I’m not so far gone.”

“But this is the talk about children, right? Not some weird hypothetical.”

Neuvillette sucks in a breath. Closes his eyes and counts to three. Still can’t find the words to say, but his expression must speak volumes. 

“Okay, yeah, let’s get you into the bath.”

“Wriothesley—”

“Bath, sweetheart, come on.”

Wriothesley coaxes him down the hall. Sets about starting the bath and stripping Neuvillette down. “You’re already a little too warm,” he murmurs, brushing Neuvillette’s hair back before tying it up and off of his neck.

“I’m fine.”

“I know you are, but into the water nonetheless.”

The water is lukewarm. Neuvillette settles, back against Wriothesley’s chest, and the tension eases. His pre-rut was mild, enough so that he didn’t notice it, but now that he’s here, his agitation over the last few days makes perfect sense. What a fool he is.

“So,” says Wriothesley against his ear, “explain it to me. I know we’ve talked about it, but go through it.”

Talking about the possibility is not the same as explaining the intimate functions, and what would be required. “Your body is mostly water.”

A soft huff. “Because I was an oceanid?”

“Because mortals are mostly water.” Gods, this is going swimmingly. But Wriothesley doesn’t laugh, he just listens, and that’s enough for Neuvillette to keep on. “I have almost perfect control over anything related, and as such, I can manipulate many a thing. My eggs are mostly water until they are fertilized, but your body, too, can be modified to carry them. It would take just a wave of my hand, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley hums thoughtfully. 

“Even so, I cannot imagine it would be comfortable. This is why I said I was the optimal choice, instead. My body is capable of both conceiving and inseminating—”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

“Wriothesley.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m listening.”

Neuvillette finds himself distracted, drawling patterns in the surface of the water with his fingers. “We’ll do what we did the last time. I will make do with your hands.”

“Sweetheart—”

“This is my preference, Wriothesley.”

It is not. Not at that moment, at least, but tomorrow he’ll thank himself for his forethought. 

Wriothesley hums again, a soft sound of dissent, but he doesn’t try to talk Neuvillette out of it. Instead, he just noses at Neuvillette’s temple, scenting him in a way that soothes Neuvillette’s instincts. “It must hurt,” he says.

“It’s bearable.”

“Bearable doesn’t mean painless.” Neuvillette grunts, which makes Wriothesley kiss the side of his head. “There’s no need to tough it out. I’m your mate, right? Be honest with yourself, with me.”

Being honest, Neuvillette has learned, is hard with your partner. He doesn’t lie—he would never, not with Wriothesley—but the words are still hard to say, and often he finds himself silent in lieu of them. 

Wriothesley’s hands drift downwards. They trace the insides of Neuvillette’s thighs, right where they meet his groin. The friction of the water would bother others, but Neuvillette is water incarnate, so when Wriothesley’s hand curls around his half-hardened cock, he just moans, hips rolling against it, seeking out more. 

“Only halfway there?” Wriothesley’s voice is a hot tease in his ear, his hand a decadent pull over his length. It’s barely slipped out from his vent, just enough so to get fingers around it.

But, this will make it better, thinks Neuvillette. He’d ignored the ache of his cock, letting his need burn a hole deep in his gut instead. The slow boil is easier to handle, but with one slow stroke from base to tip, everything sharpens like a flash fire. 

“I’m—this is—”

“Let’s take the edge off,” murmurs Wriothesley, his face pressed against Neuvillette’s ear. 

Yes, yes, that. Neuvillette will be able to think more clearly, make better decisions like not fucking his eggs deep into his partner. It would take just a wave of his hand to make a nice pocket inside of Wriothesley, a temporary womb suitable for carrying an egg. 

And Wriothesley would, he knows that he would, feels the eagerness that tugs at their bond. This is why Neuvillette’s avoided this. This is why he’s just going to have to make do with Wriothesley’s hand tight around his cock—cocks—instead. 

All of those thoughts derail entirely when Wriothesley’s other hand sneaks further down, fingers tracing the edges of his vent. They drag through slick that’s denser than water. Neuvillette moans, jerking away because in his rut, that isn’t what he wants, he wants—

“Shh, I just want to feel the other one.” Wriothesley’s fingers dip into his vent, just barely, trying to coax out Neuvillette’s second cock. His ovipositor is slower to wake, despite the eagerness of his instincts, and Neuvillette moans as those fingers sink in, just enough to brush against its hardening length. 

All the while Wriothesley still holds his other cock, still pulls over that length, thumbing across the head that peeks from the water. “I love you like this.” Wriothesley’s tone is full of shock and wonder. “You’re less reserved during your ruts. Come on, sweetheart, tell me what you want.”

“I want—I—” Neuvillette ruts against Wriothesley’s hand, desperate to get off quickly. “Beloved, I want to come. I want—”

“I don’t think that’s what you want.” Those words sink into Neuvillette’s very pores, dark and so tempting. He whines as Wriothesley’s thumb smears precome around, as his other fingers brush against the thick ovipositor that aches inside of him. “Use your words, Neuvillette.”

Those words are lodged in his throat. Neuvillette just fucks himself on and into Wriothesley’s fingers, clawing at the tub, uncaring of the water that splashes over the edge.

If he can let loose like this, maybe he can fuck Wriothesley without much consequence. Then he can fuck his eggs into the bedsheets later, when Wriothesley is too tired to take his cock. 

But then Wriothesley has to make this so, so much more difficult than it needs to be. 

“Do you want to breed me?” 

Oh, that’s—

Wriothesley knows exactly what that is, chuckling at how Neuvillette’s cock twitches in his hand. Finally, his second cock has swelled enough to slip from his vent. Finally, that tightness in Neuvillette’s belly is only an annoying itch, his ovipositor resting against his thigh. 

“You should definitely breed me. I want that.”

He, he—

Neuvillette comes suddenly, spilling into Wriothesley’s hand, soiling the bath water. The tension hasn’t loosened, though; the tension is still coiled tight, and those eggs sit heavy in his gut to the point of immense discomfort.

But Wriothesley, his mate, oh he said those damnable words. Neuvillette stands abruptly, a wave of bathroom sloshing over the sides of the tub. Wriothesley follows, and they don’t even pat themselves dry, Neuvillette just pulls the water from their skin, flicking it to the side. 

They fall into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs, of bodies, of mouths mashed together, and tongues licking across each other. He’d nested, he belatedly realizes. The bed is littered with old clothing, and blankets, and things that smell like Wriothesley.

Gods, he’s a fool. 

Wriothesley laughs as he falls into the bed, yanking Neuvillette down against him. “I meant it.” Wriothesley says this serious, his eyes clear, his being open and accepting. “Come on, sweetheart, breed me.”

“Wicked boy,” says Neuvillette as he settles over him. “It is cruel to tease me.”

“I’m not teasing you—”

“Tempt me, then. Wriothesley, you are making this difficult.”

“It’s the Solstice. I love you. You’re rutting. Come on, I want to know what an egg actually feels like—oh.”

Wriothesley’s words stutter as Neuvillette’s fingers slip into the cleft of his ass. All neurons are firing. Neuvillette can barely think past shoving his cock—both of his cocks, into his willing mate, but—

Have some damn decorum, thinks Neuvillette. He is above his baser instincts. He can control himself.

(Barely. Wriothesley paints a picture, already spreading his legs, already rolling over onto his belly in the way he knows Neuvillette likes. That’s worse. That is so, so much worse, but Neuvillette does nothing to stop Wriothesley from presenting himself in the way good mates do. Relishes it, even, especially in their bed, in their den.)

“So easy,” purrs Neuvillette when his thumb sinks right in to Wriothesley’s hole. The Hydro that drips from his palm makes a mess, but it’s a mess worth it. Wriothesley takes one, two fingers so perfectly. Then three, moaning at the stretch, at how they curl and bully his prostate. 

When he slicks his cock and presses the tip to Wriothesley’s rim, Wriothesley jerks away.

“That isn’t… I want—”

Neuvillette sucks in a breath, his nostrils flaring. His other cock. Wriothesley’s taken it plenty of times before, taken both of them, even, but never when it’s been laden with eggs. He shouldn’t. He…

(Just a little bit, right? That can’t hurt. His mate is begging for it so sweetly, and he can pull out before the point of no return. No, no, the thought of Wriothesley being spread open on that spear-shaped tip; of him taking this length deep, of fucking himself back on it—maybe that will be enough for this rut to pass.)

His ovipositor is slicked instead. The tip of it is designed to sink right in, and so it does. Neuvillette thrusts in, right to the root, pulling Wriothesley’s hips against him. 

Wriothesley cries out in pleasure. His chest drags against the sheets. His fingers pull at the soft material, bunching it up, but oh, he feels divine. Relief washes over Neuvillette as his instincts heel ever so slightly. 

His mate is a tight, hot vice around him. He holds Wriothesley firm as he rocks against his ass, forcing his thick length even deeper. 

“Fuck. Fuck, that feels—” Wriothesley’s moan is lost to the sheets, but he lifts his hips, and drives them back, trying to take even more. 

“So good for me,” praises Neuvillette, earning himself a tight squeeze around his ovipositor. His other cock lies against Wriothesley’s ass, settled against his two cheeks, drooling precome against the small of his back. 

What a sight. Neuvillette stares, lost in the vision of Wriothesley before him. This is almost perfect. All he needs—

Is to pull out before mistakes are made. But that’s an impossible task with the Wriothesley moves with him, with how he begs. 

“Feels good,” he moans. “Sweetheart, please, sovereigns, it feels good.” Wriothesley grinds back against him, keening at the way he’s being filled. 

And Neuvillette just watches how easily he takes him, how deep his cock sinks. The base of it bulges as an egg drops into place. There are only a couple—but a couple is more than plenty, and the ache is a dull, angry thing that just makes him want more, more, more. “Beloved,” he murmurs, petting the base of Wriothesley’s spine. On the next thrust, the swell of that egg bullies Wriothesley’s rim. A quick grind, just as a tease, leaves Wriothesley shaking in the sheets. “Wriothesley, I need to—”

“Fuck, just give them to me. I want them, I want—” Wriothesley’s voice cracks.

Neuvillette smells no lies. No, no, Wriothesley smells calm, collected, aroused. Neuvillette steels himself. He can make that pocket and deposit them in the way that his instincts demand. Wriothesley is a greedy mate, begging for it, and that makes this both better and worse. Neuvillette can dissolve the eggs. He can make sure none of them are fertilized. 

“Sweet boy,” he murmurs, laying himself against Wriothesley’s back. His hand snakes around his front, palm flat against Wriothesley’s groin. He shifts the water in his body, molding it to his will, rearranging it in the way they both need. 

Wriothesley stills. Grunts. But whines when Neuvillette halts, saying, “No, it’s not—just feels weird. Not bad. Strange. A good strange. It’s like you’re…” 

There is something strangely intimate about it, this, Neuvillette sculpting Wriothesley’s body to fit their needs. What’s left behind is a perfect little pocket that can house eggs. He’ll dissolve them. This is a temporary thing, born of lust and need, but Neuvillette can’t help but wonder what Wriothesley might look like, full of them. 

“There are several,” he warns. “I cannot guarantee it will be comfortable.”

(It isn’t for him. Neuvillette’s insides ache, desperate to spill everything into his willing mate.)

“I’ll love it. I always love whatever weird shit you have going on down there. I just—fuck, that’s…”

It likely feels bigger than it is. Neuvillette’s eggs are about the size of a small, curled fist. Like Navia’s hand, small and dainty. Ovular. Soft and pliable, because they are mostly water. Still. Big enough to pull at Wriothesley’s rim, to sit heavy once inside. 

“Relax,” purrs Neuvillette as he slowly grinds into him. Wriothesley does, soft and yielding. “Like that, just—yes, perfect.”

His ovipositor leaks slick that eases the way. The first egg slips in on the next downstroke, and Wriothesley goes taut. 

“Oh. Oh, that’s—” The sound that he makes is delirious with pleasure. His own cock is hard, hanging below him, brushing against the sheets as he seeks out more. “Fuck it’s big. It’s so big. That’s—that’s—”

Neuvillette should commend himself for taking such care. His instincts want him to rut into Wriothesley with wild abandon, to just take what he wants, what he needs, and fuck his eggs deep, but—

No, like this. This is good. This is—

“Perfect,” he manages. “My mate, my beloved, perfect mate. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Not all instincts can be ignored. Neuvillette can’t help but think that Wriothesley is taking this so well with the way that he just begs, and begs for more. He cries out when the first egg falls from the tip of Neuvillette’s length. His other cock, the one trapped between their bodies, twitches, desperate for its turn. 

He can’t. He can’t.

(But he should, right? Wriothesley is, has been begging for it, and who is Neuvillette to deny his mate? The Solstice is cold, which makes it perfect for this, his rut, and fucking Wriothesley full of children.)

Neuvillette tosses that idea out. He pulls out to the tip and thrusts in sharply, harshly, pushing that egg deeper, and oh, the way Wriothesley responds. His back arches. His fingers dig into the sheets, and he lifts his hips to meet the next thrust. He moans his name, drawn-out, keening cries of Neuvillette as that egg slips deeper.

It has to be helped into the right place. Neuvillette’s palm hasn’t left Wriothesley’s belly, and he thumbs at the damp, sweaty skin there as that egg rolls into the right place, helped alone with his command of Hydro. 

Another bulge, another egg. This one comes quicker, slipping down the shaft of his ovipositor, tipping into Wriothesley’s open and accepting hole. 

Wriothesley moans. “Fuck,” he curses, but then— “So good. Just like that. More, sweetheart. More. Please, I’m so full. I’m—” Wriothesley just keeps babbling as that second egg slips into him and is fucked deeper to join the first. 

The things this does to soothe Neuvillette’s instincts. This is what all of his other ruts have been missing over the centuries. A willing mate, a place to drive his eggs deep so that they can watch them take. Neuvillette has never thought much of children, not until Wriothesley, but this, all of this, is exactly what he’s needed. 

“One more, beloved.” Neuvillette knows that he must be heavy against Wriothesley’s back, but he craves the closeness, the slide of their skin together. The third egg is quick too, sinking right in and finding its home. 

Wriothesley’s stomach bulges underneath Neuvillette’s hand. What a delightful thing, the curve, the swell, the way the eggs shift ever so slightly as he ruts against him. Perfect. Divine. 

(But then everything blurs. Neuvillette’s other cock still aches, twitches with need. There’s one last thing he has to do, and it’s to shove that length in and finish the damn job. Neuvillette’s hot, sweltering in their bed. He’s a greedy, greedy creature, and he needs, wants this claim so viscerally that he doesn’t even know where to begin with articulating it.)

 “You haven’t bred me yet,” says Wriothesley, the comment cutting through his thoughts. “Neuvillette, sweetheart, you haven’t—” A soft groan as Neuvillette’s fingers dig into the swell of his belly. 

Then Wriothesley moans his name, his first name, the given one that only he knows. He begs for it, begs to be taking properly, and Neuvillette finds himself stripped of every restraint. His ovipositor slips free, leaving behind a soft, gaping entrance. His other cock is smaller, but no less good, and he doesn’t even have to slick it to slide right home. 

“Beloved,” he murmurs, forehead pressed against the back of Wriothesley’s neck. This part will not last long. This part will be too fast for his taste, but he’s been edged for long enough, and it’ll take nothing from him to breed his mate properly. 

Wriothesley is soft and warm around him. He moans, driving back against each thrust, begging for it, demanding this of him. Neuvillette’s claws dig in, catching against soft skin. They move together so perfectly, instinctively, like this was meant to be. That must be the rut talking. Neuvillette groans, fucking his mate with sharp, deep thrusts, and then he’s spilling, he’s—

He wasn’t supposed to do that. 

But how could he not? Wriothesley smells content, happy, as Neuvillette shudders against him, coming with a cry of his name. Those eggs shift slightly, tangible evidence that this has been a true rut, one that will likely succeed with…

Well. Something. 

Neuvillette blames the Solstice, blames their shared sentimentalities, and Wriothesley teasing him too damn much. Blames how much he loves this man, how he craves every part of him, how he wants to create something together. It was supposed to be him. He’s built for this, but Wriothesley—

Wriothesley hasn’t come yet. 

Neuvillette’s face falls over his shoulder, tilted to bite at his ear. “Mate,” he murmurs, drinking up Wriothesley’s scent, basting in it as he rides out his high. His and drops to Wriothesley’s cock, only to find it wet, tacky, half-hard and flagging. 

Oh. Oh, he’d—

Untouched. His mate came untouched, just by being filled, by being bred. Neuvillette didn’t know that he could love this man more. “Perfect,” he says for the thousandth time. “Beloved, you never cease to amaze me. You are so, so perfect in every way.”

Neuvillette has enough brain function to guide them onto their sides. Wriothesley laughs at his soft mutterings, at the way he paws at his belly, possessively; at how he refuses to pull out his spent cock. 

His rut has faded. He’s filled with a different sort of ache now, one that can be fixed by taking Wriothesley’s cock next, but for now, Neuvillette soaks up this moment, the feel of this, the way that everything seems to have slotted right into place.

“You are a wicked thing,” says Neuvillette says way later, after the haze of… that begins to wear off. “I… we… We should have thought things through. I should have—”

“We can do it, I think. Raise a family,” cuts in Wriothesley. He leans back fully, pressing against Neuvillette’s chest.

Neuvillette detects no lies, no worry. Wriothesley seems awash with comfort and contentment. He seems completely unperturbed by this last minute, mildly accidental… eggening. 

How embarrassing. Neuvillette hides his face in Wriothesley’s nape, letting loose an apologetic grumble. 

“I mean it.” Wriothesley’s voice is quiet, wistful. “And, we’ve talked about this—”

“In theory, Wriothesley.”

“So putting it into practice is okay.”

Neuvillette makes a defeated noise. By now his cock has slipped free, and both have retreated back into his vent. But Wriothesley grounds him. He can’t stop petting over those eggs, and the soft swell of where they sit. 

Wriothesley hums thoughtfully. “It’s a thought for tomorrow.”

“It should be a thought for now—”

“I’m not going anywhere. I asked for it, begged for it, really. Let's enjoy it, okay?”

That, he can do. Neuvillette purrs against his back, chest rumbling with satisfaction as his rut finds a break in its heat. Later, he’ll want to make love again, but for now… yes, this is…

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

“You keep saying that.”

“With intent. Wriothesley, I love you. I only know love because of you, I—this is impossible to articulate.”

Wriothesley chuckles. “You don’t need to, sweetheart. I love you too. Let's rest. We’ll figure it out later.”

Neuvillette wishes he could have Wriothesley’s confidence. Ah. Well. A problem for, as Wriothesley said, the next day. For now he just wants to bask in the warmth of his mate, of their prospective children, of other holiday indulgences yet to come. 

He is content. Settled. Mate, he thinks again, slipping into a blissful doze. 

 

Instead of Lumine at Childe's weekly spar, he finds Zhongli waiting for him instead.

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3! If you want to sponsor your own prompt, the option is only $15. Info can be found here. And you can find the Sponsor-a-Prompt Spreadsheet here!

-- 
 

The moment Childe steps inside the Golden House, he knows that something is off.

He is always early. He and Lumine have a standing date once a week, for a spar, and she always pushes through those doors right at the exact time. Not a moment early, not a moment late.

There’s already someone here. Childe feels it, tastes the power the lingers in the air. Not Lumine. This is—

“Darling,” greets Zhongli once Childe’s gaze falls on him after a quick scan of the room. He stands there, in front of the Exuvia, studying it with a hand on his chin. Childe wonders if this is the first time he’s seen it since—

No, no, Childe doesn’t want to think about that. The betrayal still stings from time to time, but it’s in the past.

“I—what are you doing here?”

Zhongli turns to him. He raises an eyebrow, amused. “What indeed,” he replies coolly, his words wrapped in melted mirth.

The answer is obvious. Zhongli is dressed down in looser-than-usual slacks, and a plain shirt. There’s a playful energy that hangs in the air. Childe has known him long enough to be immediately wary. He waits there, observing, eyes trailing over Zhongli’s form, picking it apart. 

Zhongli wears one of his shirts. It’s loose around the collar, showing off a tinge of charcoal skin where his shoulder meets his nape. The air glitters gold with Geo, clinging to him, his fingers, freely leaking from Zhongli’s pores. 

Childe’s mouth dries at the display.

“I’ve heard of your weekly spars with Miss Lumine,” says Zhongli, finally, breaking the silence. 

Oh. 

Well. It’s never been a secret. Zhongli has routinely expressed his distaste for it.

“She’s the only willing to keep me on my toes.” Childe shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over a railing. It’s winter, cold enough outside for an outer layer, but the Golden House is warm. 

Zhongli gives him a strange, lizard-like stare in return. “The only one?” he questions, and that’s when Childe knows he may have fucked this up. Something is off. Zhongli is behaving strangely.

But it’s too late to back down. He swallows, digging his heels in and goads with, “Well, you won’t spar with me. She’s the next best option.”

“Next best,” repeats Zhongli.

“Obviously.”

Zhongli chuckles softly, still cradling his chin in his fingers. “I suppose that is a failing on my part. I am, usually, unwilling to risk harm to you.”

“You’d never harm me.” These words fly from Childe’s mouth before he can stop them. And it’s true—gods, it’s true. Even at Zhongli’s stupidest moments, he’s never intentioned harm. But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Despite his well-meaning ways, Zhongli forgets about many, many variables.

“Of course, not.” Zhongli shifts, turning towards him fully. “But that has never been my concern. You, though—Ajax, you are a different story. You seek out pain like a glutton. It is, truly, your worst quality.”

It isn’t pain that he seeks out, but the hunt, the fight, the thrill of it all. Childe feels alive when blood pumps in his veins. “You know that it’s always been my goal to find myself at the top. In order to be the best, I have to fight the best.”

Zhongli hums. “And I’m the best?”

A year ago, Childe would have countered that the Tsaritsa was the best, but things have changed. His loyalty has been sidelined, swayed by his husband.

Now, Childe smiles, his mouth curving into a grin. “You aren’t just an Archon, Zhongli, you’re a god. I couldn’t ask for more of a challenge if you’d just give me one.”

The skin around Zhongli’s eyes crinkles. He’s amused. Affectionate. He looks at Childe, impressed, caught by him, and the attention is… rapt. It warms Childe, and—

Fuck. Maybe this was a bad idea and Zhongli has always been right. Childe isn’t a fool. He’s here to finally answer that call, and Childe knows the moment they get their hands on each other, it’s a fight that will turn sideways, softened by their love for each other. 

“What’s the occasion?” asks Childe, crossing the space to where Zhongli stands.

There is a moment of hesitation. “Curiosity. Miss Lumine has often recounted your… spars. You often come home bruised, but in good spirits.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Because it doesn’t. Zhongli is curious about any and everything, but that interest doesn’t usually drive him to seek it out first hand. No, there’s an ulterior motive here. Zhongli’s expression is too sharp, his demeanor too tight. 

“Zhongli, are you okay?”

“Hm?” 

His blasé response proves it. Zhongli seems… distracted, almost. It’s like watching the gears turn in his head. 

Eventually, Zhongli says, “I am fine. More than fine.”

He is not. He is not. 

“Zhongli—”

“Didn’t you want a spar? Haven’t you asked this of me since the moment we met? You’ve been impressively stubborn about it.”

It would be stupid to turn this invitation down. Zhongli has given in a handful of times, engaging in small bouts of hand-to-hand combat. This feels different. This feels… To meet him here, at the Golden House…

“What do you want, Zhongli?”

Zhongli’s expression changes ever-so-slightly. It sharpens and when he looks at Childe next, it’s almost predatory. “To indulge in my mate,” he says simply. “I did not think you would be so suspicious of this.”

Mate. It’s a word that makes heat churn in Childe’s gut. He shudders, interest sparking down his spine. “When it comes to you, Zhongli, everything is give and take. I half expect for you to make this into a contract.”

“Should we?” Zhongli’s interest is piqued, and suddenly there is less space between them. “Baobei, I am more than willing to craft an agreement, if that suits you. What would your terms be?”

This is a trick question. It must be. This close, Zhongli smells like fine shampoo, and that subtle, scented oil that he favors. 

There’s something else, something that nags at him. Childe licks his lips, leaning so close that Zhongli stops him with a hand against his chest. 

“Ajax.”

“I’m—” Childe clears his throat. “I just want a good spar. I won’t win, but if I last… let’s say, a good half-hour, I get a full night of you, to myself.”

“I do think that you’re the one with no time off. I am, effectively, retired.”

“Then I’ll talk to Katya. She’ll grant me a vacation.”

Zhongli considers this, and then asks, “And if you don’t? What do I get?”

“I’ve already asked you what you wanted, and you didn’t tell me. I might not be able to smell lies, Zhongli, but I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing is bothering me. I am not…” Zhongli sighs. He pulls at Childe’s shirt, sliding his fingers across his chest, teasing the line of it. “Perhaps I just miss you. The Tsaritsa seems to be running you ragged.”

It is true that Childe was in Fontaine for longer than he wanted to be. Then there was a lot of downtime spent in recovery, frozen-solid in Snezhnaya. But this, Childe thinks, is not about that. He doesn’t ask questions, though, or push Zhongli’s buttons. No, no, he’s going to indulge because Zhongli has finally, finally, agreed to a fight. 

“Zhongli, just give me your terms, and then we can get this show on the road.”

Zhongli hesitates. Traces the length of Childe’s shoulders with his fingers. They’re still gloved, but they must be smoldering black underneath that soft leather. Childe thinks that Zhongli is barely holding onto himself, and he wants to know why. 

“There is little you could give me that I do not already have, but—”

“That’s a lot of words for such a simple question.”

“—were I to request something, it would be rather simple. I too, would enjoy having you, only you, to myself for a night.”

When Zhongli says it, it seems like a threat, almost. In a good way. In a, I will not leave the room without limping way, which Childe is more than enthusiastic about.

“Sounds good to me. Do we shake on it?” 

Instead of holding his hand out, Zhongli cups Childe’s cheek. “One more thing, baobei. My instincts have been rather demanding as of late. My home does not smell like you anymore. When I win, I will hoard you away.”

When, Zhongli just said. And though Childe makes no illusions of standing a chance, a half-hour in the ring is feasible, he thinks. Zhongli always holds back. 

“Pretty confident for an old lizard.”

Zhongli’s pupils are narrowly slit. His eyes glow golden, and he drags the pad of his thumb across Childe’s bottom lip, catching it against chapped skin. “Rapscallion,” he calls him. “In the days of old, we sealed our contracts in blood. With you, however, a kiss would suffice.”

Childe snorts. “You don’t have to create a contract to kiss me.”

“No, but it is more fun that way, isn’t it?”

Perhaps. Childe smiles against Zhongli’s thumb and kisses it. “One thing,” he says, then. “I don’t want you to hold back.”

“Ajax—”

“No, I want you to give it your all. I want to go up against your full strength.”

Zhongli is quiet for a moment. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s thinking—thinking about the best way to get around such a request. It won’t work. Childe’s locked in, eyes on the prize. 

“Darling, I thought you wanted to last a half-hour,” he purrs. 

“Think so lowly of me?”

“Of course, not. There are few that I would offer such an opportunity to, Ajax. It is a testament to what I think of your abilities.”

Childe kisses his thumb again. “But?”

“But,” says Zhongli, “willful ignorance is still ignorance.”

What a thing to say. 

“Fifteen minutes, then. I know I don’t stand a chance of winning, but give me a quarter-hour of you at your worst. I’ll learn more than any fight I’ve had with Lumine.”

Zhongli huffs and leans forward. “As you wish,” he murmurs, breath warm against Childe’s lips. He kisses him, softly, and with that, the contract seals into place, a thrum of magic pulsing through Childe’s veins. 

And really, Childe should learn to shut up. He should learn when not to put his foot into his mouth, because Archons above, Zhongli warned him. Your full strength, he asked for. Fifteen minutes, he’d said. 

Two minutes, and Zhongli has him on his back—and that’s only because he teased him first, dodging Childe’s movements. Then he moved, lightning fast, and Childe found himself upended, head cracking against the floor. 

A soft huff flits from Zhongli’s mouth. “Worrisome. When you hit your head, I mean.” Only he sounds amused, and not at all worried—but that’s because he knows Childe’s limits, and is already feeding a steady flow of power into his bones, staving off whatever damage might be done.

“Don’t,” hisses Childe. “That’s cheating.”

Zhongli blinks. “Caring for you is cheating?”

“No, that’s—” He grunts, sitting up, swaying slightly from dizziness. “It’s an unfair advantage.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Zhongli reminds him. 

“I’d rather it be on my own merit,” bites out Childe. He swoons when he stands, but to Zhongli’s credit, he leaves Childe be this time. “Let’s go again.”

Zhongli’s mouth twists slightly. “There is no shame in calling off—”

“Again.”

Zhongli’s jaw clenches. His expression is amused, haughty, even, and this time when he steps away, he pulls at the shirt he wears, undoing the top two buttons. It’s easy to see now, the way charcoal bleeds into his skin. He came here, already keyed up, already wanting a challenge, and Childe is determined to figure out why. 

“What has you so bothered? Is it the fact that I have a weekly date with Lumine?”

A date between friends, sure, but the words have their desired effect—Zhongli stiffens, his head tilted back. Geo shocks the air, coalescing around him, shackling against his skin, through the space above his head. Childe’s eyes lock onto the ghostly visage of antlers bleeding from the crown of Zhongli’s temple. 

Yeah, something is up. Zhongli so rarely has a problem reigning himself in, and he is never jealous of others, least of all Lumine. Childe’s heart is in his throat, terrified, awed, and incredibly turned on. Desperate to get close again, to feel the chase in his blood—these are the things he loves about sparring, and sometimes Lumine doesn’t cut it.

His mate, though. Zhongli. Laogong. Fuck, he knew this would be good. Just what he wanted, needed. And, apparently Zhongli, who was waiting for him. 

“Lumine,” says Zhongli, his mouth curling into a feral grin. “She was the one who suggested that I meet you here this week. She is worried about you, about the Foul Legacy. You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, so that’s it?” interrupts Childe. “This is about me, then?”

“Your self-destructive tendencies are involved, yes.” Another half-truth, another clever dodge around the full answer.

“Zhongli.”

“I can sense it, you know. The way that the Abyss eats at you, the way that it chips away at your being. With every use of that thing, more of you wears away. Are you so intent on letting it fester?”

Childe cocks his head to the side. “This isn’t about that. You’ve always complained about it, but this and that are different things.”

Zhongli seems to have underestimated him. He chews on those words, forming a rebuttal. “You would leave me alone, then? You would have me retire, an old man in my lonesome?”

Oh, that’s a low blow.

But, two can play that game. Childe is a master at kicking back, much to the chagrin of his fellow Harbingers. “Fair trade off,” he says, “if it means unlimited, cosmic power.”

Zhongli’s jaw tenses, a small, barely noticeable tick. Perfect. Childe’s goaded him perfectly, but now it’s time to cinch it all.

He calls upon his abyssal power, letting it flood his veins. It burns, but in the way that a good workout burns. Fire flashes through him, setting every pore alight, and Childe laughs, the sound growing larger, louder. He shifts, everything within him shifts, tilting as he becomes one with that darkness, with that abyssal taint that overtakes him. 

Childe lasts a little bit longer this time. He manages to get a few laps in around the Golden House before Zhongli hooks an arm around his waist. Zhongli is so small in comparison like this, but it doesn’t matter; he tosses Childe down like he’s nothing more than a rag doll. 

The Foul Legacy squirms underneath Childe’s skin. It wants blood, and screams for more—but then Zhongli throws a leg over him, pinning Childe to the ground, and the Foul Legacy all but crumples back. 

Power recognizes power. The Foul Legacy heels in the might of a once-archon, and still god. Zhongli barely does anything, he just leans over him, a hand pressed to the thick armor of his chest. “Darling,” he coos, dragging those fingers over the swell there, sweeping across dents and cuts that decorate the plates. 

It’s sweetly saccharine. Childe can’t feel the heat of Zhongli’s fingertips, but arousal pools in his gut all the same. He’s always gotten off on this, the push and pull of the hunt, but to be at the end of his mate, of his laogong, as Zhongli so often calls him, is something else entirely. 

Then those fingers brush lower, across Childe’s taut belly, across the bulge trapped in his trousers. Childe’s cock aches. It twitches underneath Zhongli’s deft hand, resulting in an amused chuckle. 

“I suppose that I should not be surprised. Tell me, Ajax, was sparring with me everything that you wished for? Did it satisfy that hungry curiosity of yours?” 

It only made him hungrier, and Zhongli’s fingers pulling over his erection helps none. Childe groans, his head falling back, thunking against the tile of the Golden House. “Zhongli.” 

His voice is tight and tiny, ragged around the edges. Zhongli offers him a smirk, a slight tilting of his lips as the pressure against Childe’s cock grows heavier. 

“Hungry,” he repeats, musing over the word. “You are always hungry for the strangest of things.”

“This isn’t strange. You—Zhongli, I—”

Zhongli is teasing him, of course. He leans close, slotting between Childe’s thighs, pressing his nose into the sweaty crook of Childe’s neck. It’s awkward like this, when he’s larger, broader, dwarfing Zhongli’s body, but Zhongli doesn’t seem to care. 

His tongue darts out to taste him, to lick across Abyss-darkened skin. “Delectable.” Zhongli tilts closer to drag his teeth, his fingers across the spot, teasing a bite. “Ajax, you are a vision. You taste, you smell—”

Zhongli lifts his face to the juncture of his neck, inhaling, uncaring of Childe’s mask, of his armor, and the stiff, spiky bits that are in the way. 

He’s hard too. Zhongli. He rolls his hips against Childe’s crotch, making his own need evident. All that talk about getting off on sparring, and he’s no better. Zhongli presents himself as calm and collected, but even he has his moments. Even he gets needy, his instincts taking over and—

Childe stills. There’s a thought, a memory, a conversation that they shared months ago whilst hidden away in the teapot. 

“A rut,” Zhongli had whispered against his mouth, tongue darting out to taste tea on his lips. “Eventually, you will see it. I will be overcome with a need for you unlike what you’ve seen before. I will cease to make sense. I will make irrational decisions, but most of all, I will want to hoard you away.”

And then, his words earlier, not even a half-hour ago: “My home does not smell like you anymore. When I win, I will hoard you away.”

Now, Zhongli hovers over him, a ravenous expression shocking his face. He’d been waiting for him, desperate. Childe had walked into a trap, he now realizes. How clever Zhongli is, how wild and cunning. Zhongli could’ve invited him over and explained, but no, no, Childe remembers the rest of that conversation as well.

“There’s a thrill to it, those instincts. I will want to hunt you down, and then I will want to nest. I will want you leaving these sheets bow-legged and bred full of my clutch.”

“Is this your way of seducing me?” It’s a stupid question. Childe’s voice is warped, tinny in the otherwise quiet room. 

Zhongli, though, takes no offense. He just purrs, satisfied, and tilts his hand until he’s palming at Childe’s cock properly. “It must be working for you to be like this. What a good boy for me.”

For all the things Childe has done is his life, he’s never been fucked in this form. He’s never even thought about it, beyond a few errant tugs over his cock when hot and bothered. Always alone. Never with another. And even with Zhongli, even with his mate, he’s never… 

“I’m different, like this. You… Zhongli, you really shouldn’t—”

“I shouldn’t?” Zhongli lifts a hand to yank off his glove with his teeth. Then it drops again, teasing the fastenings of Childe’s trousers, pulling the top-most button open. “I find myself interested in what you seem to be hiding away.”

Childe catches Zhongli by the wrist, careful of his claws. Zhongli pauses. His expression is heated, pupils blown wide, irises glowing a brilliant golden, but he waits. Licks his lips and looks at Childe’s face, his mask, taking in the sight of him. 

Then, Zhongli asks, “What worries you? Do you think I will not like whatever I find within your trousers?”

Childe laughs, a choking sound, at the absurd question. And no, no, that isn’t quite it. Logically, he knows that Zhongli has seen stranger, weirder things than the way his cock is when cloaked in the Foul Legacy.

But still. 

Hesitation bleeds through him. Zhongli senses it. 

“Ajax,” he says, “do you wish to stop?”

“No, no, I want—” Childe sighs, rolling his hips up against him. “This is your rut, isn’t it? You need this.”

Zhongli waits a scant few seconds before pulling at his trousers again. “What I need is you. That manner and method matters not. Miss Lumine merely…” He clears his throat. “I may have complained about my impending cycle, which led to a rather clever solution on her end. But this… Baobei, this doesn’t have to happen here. I can steal you away into the teapot if you’d rather wish.”

There is an appeal to this. Zhongli is interested, Zhongli wants, and that in turn makes Childe burn all the hotter. They can save the teapot for later. Besides, adrenaline still surges through Childe’s veins, and there’s little better than a post-fight fuck. 

Zhongli’s eyes widen when Childe’s cock is freed. “Oh,” he mutters, loosing a breath as he rests that thick length against the palm of his hand. It’s massive against him, nearly as thick as his wrist. Tinged blue and purple, wider at the base, thin and spade-shaped at the tip. It’s flexible, prehensile, even, writhing against Zhongli’s fingers, eager for more touch. 

Hunger tugs at Zhongli’s expression. “Darling,” he says, “you were scared to show me this?”

“It’s—oh.”

Zhongli huffs, giving Childe’s cock a stroke, a good squeeze around the tip, and whatever worries he had dissolved right into the aether. 

“The only thing I dislike is that this form causes you harm. But this—Ajax, this is divine.”

Doubtful, but it’s easy to believe it with the way that Zhongli touches him. Childe’s cock twitches, wriggles in his grasp, responsive to the attention. It’s a little embarrassing, but that is outweighed by the pleasure that heats his gut, and the rapturous expression that mars Zhongli’s face. 

“A pity,” he says, as he explores, dragging his thumb around the head of Childe’s dick, teasing the ridge there, “that we must be quick about this.” Zhongli moves, pulling open his own clothing, freeing his own cock, pressing them together. 

It’s laughable. Childe’s cock is monstrous beside Zhongli’s, but it doesn’t matter. Zhongli’s stiff cock is hot against his, and the friction as it pulls over heated flesh is something to die for. Childe moans, his back arching, hips bucking as he fucks into the tight grip of Zhongli’s fist. 

“Later, I will pull you apart. I told you, baobei, what I wanted when I won. You were right. I’m rutting, utterly consumed with thoughts of breeding you full.”

“I want that. I want—”

“As much as I would give you that, not here. Ajax, I want to pull you apart slowly. I want you all to myself, in my sheets, in my den.”

That’s… Childe swallows thickly. Okay, yeah, he can do that. Doesn’t change the fact that his dick aches, his ass clenches, and all he can think of is being fucked by Zhongli’s perfect cock. And oh, the Foul Legacy likes the idea of that too. His own dick writhes against Zhongli’s hand, almost like it has a mind of its own.

(Which, it kind of does. The Foul Legacy is a weird, wild thing that cannot quite be conceptualizes. It both is and is not Childe. He has his own thoughts, and thoughts that act separately like this, which is the nature of abyssal taint. It’s partly why he rarely indulges even masturbatory measures in this form—ultimately, it leaves him unsatisfied because he’s feeding the pleasure of another beast.)

With Zhongli here, Childe finds himself curious. Will he be satisfied in the presence of his husband? Or will that make it even worse? Childe almost begs to be whisked away, but Zhongli’s teapot is no place for the skin he wears. He doesn’t want to mar such a place with his brand of darkness.

Plus, there’s Zhongli and his need. His rut burns through him, clear as day. He fucks his palm, his cock dragging against Childe’s, a moan flitting from his lips. Pink-cheeked. Eyes glittering with arousal. Childe doesn’t think he’s ever seen Zhongli so lost in the heat of it, not even the first time they came together. 

“Zhongli,” he says. “Zhongli, just—fuck, just—”

“Were it feasible,” cuts in Zhongli, “were it safer for you to stay like this, I would spend hours playing with you. I would explore every corner, every crevice, every—” He looks down, smiling at the sight of Childe’s dick, thumbing over the tip to smear the precome that drips from there around. “Every inch, laogong.”

“Please. Please.”

“But we can’t, can we? All the things that you’ve done to yourself in the pursuit of power, and for what? To still wind up on your back?”

Oh. Oh. Zhongli’s tease unsettles the Foul Legacy, but heat rolls through Childe. He likes this, the weight of Zhongli against him, over him. That look on his face. Unbridled lust. Want and need. The Foul Legacy, too—it may not want to submit, but it does because it recognizes Zhongli’s might, all that power that he has packed away in such a small place.

Divine. So, so, divine. 

“You’re close,” says Zhongli, pulling his thumb around the crown of Childe’s cock, tracing the strange shape of it. “Come on, darling. Let me see what you look like. I want to know all parts of you, good and bad.”

Childe keens, the sound of it strange through his mask. His back bows, and he arches from the ground, driving his hips upwards to fuck against Zhongli’s hand, his cock. The friction is killer. Heat burns through him, pulling him thin, taut, ready to snap at any moment.

But really, it’s Zhongli, and that gaze of his, and the way that he watches their cocks in his hand with rapt attention. That’s what does him in, what makes the pleasure kick up a notch. Childe always wants; wants to be wanted, wants to have that attention. He didn’t think Zhongli would like this, that he’d get off on it, but, but—

The spar keyed him up, but it’s Zhongli who made him want this. A few more strokes of their cocks, a few more rolls of their hips together, and that delicious, grinding friction, has Childe tipping right over the edge. He comes with a cry of Zhongli’s name, thin and raspy, and a choked off moan that fizzles out into the air. 

“Look at you,” says Zhongli, his voice deep, caught. He still ruts against him, still presses his own cock into the tight space of his fist, overstimulation be damned. Evidence of Childe’s orgasm is everywhere, staining is stomach, and Zhongli’s hand with strange, thick, glittering come. “I want to taste you. I cannot wait to—hah.” 

Zhongli is thinking of more than that. He squeezes their cocks tighter, and even as Childe’s flags, it still feels good. 

“One day, I’ll make love to you like this. One day, we will plan for it, and it will be quick, and swift, but I want to know all of you, darling.”

“You could—you can.”

Zhongli grunts softly and comes suddenly. 

So, maybe not. Childe whines at the loss of opportunity. One day, indeed. He wants that, wants to know what it’s like to be filled in this form. 

Zhongli’s cock stays hard. He pulls his hand away slowly, cautiously, and groans at the loss of pressure. Trails his fingers through the mess they’ve made—but mostly Childe’s come, scooping it up. He brings it to his mouth for a taste. Zhongli moans softly, his tongue darting out against his fingers, and—

That’s too much, all of this is too much. Zhongli was right, the Foul Legacy is starting to wear him too thin, and Childe’s next sound is a soft one of discomfort. Abyssal taint turns sharp, pin-pricky, and he does his best to slough it away. 

But he’s tired, almost too tired to reset. It takes longer than usual for Childe to melt back into his expected form, and he’s left bone-weary and aching in places he didn’t know existed.

Zhongli looms over him. He wipes his soiled hand against his trousers, and then cups Childe’s face. “You should rest.”

“No, I want—fuck, I want more. That wasn’t—”

Childe aches to be filled, to have Zhongli’s cock inside of him. 

He also just aches.

Zhongli chuckles softly. “My darling mate,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss his brow. “There will be plenty of time for that. Trust me when I said you want to be rested for—”

“Your rut.”

Zhongli does not immediately answer. Childe watches his throat bob as he swallows. “It is, admittedly, an annoying cycle. I have been thankful that it’s remained dormant.”

“…until now?”

“Yes, well, in the presence of my husband, it would be natural, no?”

Childe tugs at Zhongli’s shirt. Well, his shirt. Zhongli stole it. “And all the breeding talk? It’s all talk, right?”

More hesitation, more half-answers, and an amused, crooked smile that curves Zhongli’s lips. “I think that we both would agree that we are… unsuited for children, perhaps.”

“That is not an answer.”

“The breeding talk is merely that—”

“A kink then? Thank god.”

Childe can work with a kink. Zhongli’s biology is strange too, so he was worried about weird, adeptal things. He’s already seen the glowing dick. Zhongli has referenced a knot, and fuck, yes, he’s curious, but—

“Worry not, Ajax.” Zhongli’s voice is considerably calmer than just moments ago. “It will be nothing that you cannot handle. I’ve already sent a letter to Miss Ekaterina—”

“You what?”

“—and Miss Lumine was kind enough to tidy-up my teapot. It was dusty because it’s been a while since we’ve had time to ourselves. We owe her one—what is that look?” 

Oh, how embarrassing. It’s bad enough that Zhongli talked to Lumine about this to begin with, resulting in him being here instead, but for Katya to be aware. “Surely you just said you wanted a vacation, right?”

Zhongli says nothing, just blinks at him. 

Right. Well. Childe groans, dragging a hand down his face. 

To lighten the mood, Zhongli changes the subject. “You never answered me, by the way. Was a spar with me everything that you thought it would be?”

Yes. No. Maybe. Childe certainly wishes he’d had a fucking chance, at the least. He had no illusions of winning, but he did think he’d last at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen. He’d wound up on his back, twice, and Zhongli had treated it like a fucking game.

“I think I get why you’re an archon, now.”

“Was,” corrects Zhongli gently. He pulls back and rights his clothing, tucking his cock away and grimacing all the while. 

“Shit, you’re…” Childe stares at the still very obvious, very hard bulge in Zhongli’s trousers. 

“Pay it no mind. Come, darling, let us settle in for the night. You should eat and sleep, and tomorrow—”

“That’s when the real fun starts, right? Can we fight again?”

Zhongli’s gaze flashes gold, literally. Geo is thick in the air. It curls around them as Zhongli’s grip on his being wears thinner and thinner by the second. “I would say no, but—”

“But?”

“It is within my nature to… indulge in roughhousing. Dragons, we—” He sighs. “Even with my softer, qilin instincts, in times of rut, I find myself uniquely… bothered.”

“That isn’t a no.”

“Ajax—”

“You didn’t say no. That’s basically a yes.”

“Ajax.”

Childe pulls himself to his feet, grimacing slightly, but otherwise reenergized. “Next time, I’ll last longer.”

Zhongli shoots him a half-lidded gaze. “You may certainly try.”

A promise and a threat. A thrill zings down Childe’s spine, and if he wasn’t so tired, if he wasn’t so fucking sore, he’d demand that rematch right now. 

But Zhongli knows him, and he presses closer, taking hold of Childe’s face between his warm palms. “Those are thoughts for later, baobei. Come, let us retire home.”

“Zhongli—”

Zhongli kisses him, and it isn’t a gentle, teasing thing, it’s a hard press of their mouths together; it’s his tongue tracing the seam of Childe’s mouth, coaxing it open; it’s swallowing Childe’s moan, and tasting every sound that Zhongli pulls from his throat. 

Another promise, another threat. Zhongli kisses him possessively, as if to consume him, which must be the rut talking. Childe likes this side of him, this older part of Zhongli that has given into those baser instincts. 

When they part, Zhongli still lingers close, laughing against Childe’s mouth. 

“You still didn’t say no,” says Childe. “Means I’m wearing you down.”

“What a rapscallion. My rapscallion, my wily, mate.”

This time, when Zhongli tells him to come, Childe does, and the tuck away into his teapot, the Golden House melting right away. 

Neuvillette comes untouched during a heavy make-out sesh.

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

It should come as no surprise that after they share that first kiss, things change. 

Short and sweet kisses morphing into long and lingering things. Neuvillette learns how to slip Wriothesley tongue, that it’s okay for his hands to wander, to grope and grasp. Wriothesley learns what sorts of sounds Neuvillette makes, what sorts of sounds he makes, because apparently making out with the person you’ve loved for over a decade is a vastly different affair than quick, perfunctory fucks.

Those sweeping kisses turn into hands full of flesh, which turn into grinding their hips together, which turns into Neuvillette climbing into Wriothesley’s lap to bite at his mouth. 

And that’s where they are now, with Neuvillette sitting across his lap, his tongue shoved down Wriothesley’s throat. It’s an uncoordinated mess, but it’s a good mess, one that leaves Wriothesley aching in his trousers, his cock trapped underneath Neuvillette’s broad thigh. 

Wriothesley doesn’t realize his face has drifted away, distracted, until Neuvillette tugs it back sharply. He cups Wriothesley’s cheek with strong fingers that could snap him like a twig. Hot. That will always be really fucking hot, but not as much as Neuvillette’s fingers dragging across the skin of his face, tracing every inch to commit it to memory.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters, tipping his face back for another kiss.

Neuvillette grunts, holding him there firm, and Wriothesley just takes it, everything he gives him; that thick, draconian tongue is thicker, rougher, but it’s—

Wriothesley moans. His fingers dig into the meat of Neuvillette’s calf, squeezing it. “Fuck,” he curses. “Fuck—”

“Quiet.” Neuvillette doesn’t quite command it, but it’s said with the same sort of Authority that shapes his entire being.

Wriothesley smiles and pecks his mouth sweetly. “Needy?”

“Wriothesley.”

“You love kissing me.”

Neuvillette huffs, a strange, whistling sort of sound caught between fondness and annoyance. He rakes his claws through Wriothesley’s hair, petting at his scalp. “I’ve been denied this for so long.”

“You could’ve kissed me years ago.”

Neuvillette’s expression is narrowed. His grip shifts to hold Wriothesley’s chin, and he drags his thumb across his bottom lap. “Always so chapped,” he muses. “Surely Miss Sigewinne can provide you with an adequate moisturizer.”

“Please don’t mention her while we’re making out.”

“I would think that it would hurt with how cracked they are.”

Warmth fills Wriothesley’s chest at that. It’s the smallest and silliest things that Neuvillette focuses on. “You wouldn’t know, would you?” he muses, laughing. “You’ve probably never had dry lips in your life.”

“I am a rather… wet… being.” 

Neuvillette’s attempts at teasing are endearing. Wriothesley finds himself tipping his face back as he relaxes into the couch, tugging Neuvillette against him. 

“Another,” Neuvillette politely requests. “Beloved, please.”

Wriothesley cradles Neuvillette’s face, slotting their mouths back together. Not that the kiss before wasn’t deep, but this is heavier, headier. Neuvillette licks into his mouth like he’s trying to catch his taste, to memorize it as his tongue slides across Wriothesley’s. 

Neuvillette is hard. Wriothesley feels the way that he squirms in his lap, trying and failing to ignore it. Pleasure heats Wriothesely’s belly, and sinks into his own aching dick. Things have moved fast, and Neuvillette is an eager, eager, man; it’s Wriothesley who is a little more patient about this, who—while he doesn’t want to take it slow—still approaches this newfound intimacy with care.

Still, who is he to not react? Wriothesley presses his hand flat against Neuvillette’s chest, squeezing at those taut swimmer’s muscles. They kiss and kiss, all tongues and teeth, and trilling noises that no human would ever make. But Neuvillette—he mouths at Wriothesley’s face hungrily, needy, those sharp-tipped claws digging into the meat of his chin. Not enough to damage, but he feels it, and fuck, he loves it. 

That hand drops to Neuvillette’s thigh, Wriothesley’s fingers digging into the plush feel of it. And then, upwards, the backs of his knuckles pressing against the bulge of Neuvillette’s cock where it’s trapped in his trousers.

Neuvillette doesn’t still; he moans against his mouth and spreads his legs, offering up a better reach. 

“Sweetheart,” mutters Wriothesley, smiling against his mouth. “Does that feel good?”

“I—Wriothesley.”

It must; Neuvillette grinds against his hand, chasing what little friction he can get. Wriothesley teases him, allowing only for the barest contact, just the sweep of his fingers overtop his trousers, tracing Neuvillette’s length. 

It’s mostly about the kissing. A little about the groping. Entirely about the way Neuvillette sits in his lap, devouring his mouth, pushing himself flush against Wriothesley’s body. 

“Damp,” teases Wriothesley, the tacky fabric of Neuvillette’s clothing catching against the pad of his thumb. “You said you were a wet being, but—”

Neuvillette lets loose a deep moan as he suddenly shudders against Wriothesley. It takes a moment for it to sink in, the flush tint to Neuvillette’s face, the pinch of skin between his brows. 

“Oh,” breathes Wriothesley. “Oh, you’ve—”

Neuvillette came from just making out, and the lightest touch of his fingers. Overly sensitive. He’s embarrassed, too, just slightly, but he doesn’t hide away; and just grinds against Wriothesley’s fingers as they sweep through the damp patch on the front of his trousers, writing out that surprise orgasm for as long as he can. They’ve indulged in plenty of heavy petting, but never to the point of this. 

Even if he walked in on Neuvillette that one time, even if Neuvillette’s given him a grand total of one hand job, Wriothesley never pressed the issue after that. Wriothesley just to hurries it back home and furiously jerks himself off after any of their… meetings.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” He nips at Neuvillette’s mouth playfully. “Didn’t think we’d get to third base today.”

“What does that…” Neuvillette’s nostrils flare as Wriothesley cups him properly, just for a feel. 

“More?”

Neuvillette doesn’t immediately answer. He cups Wriothesley’s face, tilting it towards him. He traces that scar underneath his eye, watching him, and it’s with such a fond expression. “More, you ask me,” says Neuvillette. “If we were to indulge in more, we may very well get into trouble.”

“It’s late. No one else is here, aside from us.”

Neuvillette’s fingers pet through his hair, and Wriothesley groans at the tingles the touch sends down his spine. That’s good too. As is just sitting here. Honestly, he’ll take anything, but now that he’s seen Neuvillette lose himself so easily, that’s what he wants more. 

“There is a time and place. I was not prepared to…” Neuvillette’s face wrinkles slightly. “My trousers are soiled, thanks to you.”

“Me?” Wriothesley is offended by that. “It takes two to tango—”

“You came for tea,” is Neuvillette’s blunt reply. 

“And I stayed for the kissing, and the grinding, and the—” Wriothesley stops when Neuvillette shifts, tossing a leg over to straddle his hips properly. Wriothesley’s erection is apparent. Neuvillette now tortures him with the exact same, light-handed drag of his fingers across the clothed bulge. “Weren’t you just trying to talk me out of this?”

Neuvillette hums, pulling at the opening of Wriothesley’s trousers. “Consider myself swayed.”

Wriothesley is down for the count after that, but he supposes it's his own damn fault—not that he’s complaining.